


Fingerprints on the Ludwig Mies van der Rohe Leather Chaise

by lalejandra



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Gen, Transformative Works Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-17
Updated: 2005-05-17
Packaged: 2019-07-17 14:13:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16097285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: For Kassie (who else?).





	Fingerprints on the Ludwig Mies van der Rohe Leather Chaise

Brad absolutely did not want to have a party. He didn't want the young turks of Hollywood leaving fingerprints on his Ludwig Mies van der Rohe leather chaise. He didn't want anyone staring at him, speculating that his party was an overcompensation for the loss of Jen. It wasn't like he lost a limb or even a finger -- it was just his *wife*, so who cared?

Melissa made him have the party, and Tammy Lynn called the catering company that she always used. He preferred to just call the grocery store, usually, or Jen handled it. Jen'd handled everything, and he hadn't even realized it until she was gone and he had to pay the electricity bill himself.

*He* was gone. She was still in their house, with -- she was still in their house. He had left.

Melissa and Tammy Lynn played hostesses. They worked the room. He stayed at the wet bar -- it was the perfect place, really, because people came up to get their drinks, and then wandered away so someone else could get a drink.

Brad didn't want to talk to anyone for longer than five minutes, not even George, not even Angie, not even Colin or -- hell, Melissa'd invited Susan, and she'd flown out from New fucking York with Tim attached to her hip.

He wondered how Melissa phrased the invite: Susie, baby, Brad is going crazy here, he's repressing all this shit, you know how bad that is, you've known him longer than I have, love, get out here and help me fix him.

Susan had squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek, and they'd done a shot of vodka together, and then she'd wandered off to talk to someone else, across the room, far away from Brad's black fucking hole of depression.

"Hey, man." The kid standing next to him looked kind of familiar. He had really bright blue eyes. He turned to the bartender and ordered rum punch like it was a margarita or a G&T. Brad was drinking a martini, thinking about being the next James Bond.

"Hey," said Brad.

"We met a couple of times -- Tom Welling. Smallville." He stuck out a hand and sipped rum punch through a pink bendy straw. Brad felt kind of perversely fascinated. The kid was wearing a wedding ring.

"Br--"

"Yeah, I know who you are." The kid snickered. "So what's the deal with this party, huh? You don't seem to be having a good time."

"Well, you know," said Brad lamely.

"Oh, yeah, I know," replied the kid, like Brad had made perfect sense. Maybe the kid wasn't all there. Anybody that pretty had to be an idiot, thought Brad, just like how he himself was a fucking moron. A pretty face sucked out all the brains.

"Yeah," said Brad, for the lack of anything else to say.

  



End file.
